


Till the Wheels Come Off

by visionshadows



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Religious overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-23
Updated: 2004-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visionshadows/pseuds/visionshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack loses his faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Wheels Come Off

To Jack, it was like inhaling through a filter, the air coarse and sterilized, something he wouldn't be caught dead breathing unless he'd been caught nearly dead. His knees always ached when he knelt beside the pew, making the sign of the cross. His father's eyes burned the back of his neck as Jack would rise and move into the pew, a slip of a boy that his father couldn't be less proud of.

Bible on his forehead, eyes tightly closed, the psalms spilling from his lips, Jack lived and breathed and prayed for his father's benefit, each word falling heavily to the ground. The cross burnt his flesh but he never touched it, never separated it from his body. His father's legacy in a neat, white scar, the cross he carried with him even today.

A switch leaned against the door just as the Bible leaned against Jack's forehead, pressed down by a large hand. It was dark, too dark, too late. Somewhere, Jack's mother was sleeping and his sister was praying that her turn would not come tonight. If - when - Jack faltered, the switch would come down hard on his bare back and he would begin again.

At eighteen, Jack pushed the Bible off his forehead and stood up, meeting his father eye to eye for the first time in his life. His father's eyes were steady, full of hatred and passion, locking with Jack's until Jack was the first to look away.

"Forgive me, father ... "

Jack joined the Air Force and never allowed his father to press a Bible to his forehead again.

  


"Forgive me, good father ... "

Jack's eyes flickered over to Daniel who had his head bowed in deference to Kasuf's leadership. Behind Kasuf, a crowd gathered, eyes peering at them with nothing more than curiosity, wondering as why Danyel and Oneel had returned to them.

"You need forgiveness, good son?" Kasuf tilted Daniel's chin back up and met his eyes, locking them with Daniel's until Daniel was the first to look away, meeting the mirrored gaze of Jack's sunglasses.

"I need home," Daniel said softly, bowing his head again.

Kasuf said nothing, only turned away from them and walked back towards the tents, Daniel trailing behind him and Jack a step behind Daniel. Home was a tent in a desert for Daniel, a home full of reminders of a dead love. Jack had a home like that once.

Sweat trickled down Jack's spine as the sun beat down on their covered bodies, Daniel in his white robes and Jack wearing camo and a T-shirt. He wished for the white robe, for the soft drape of the fabric over his body. He wished for the forgiveness that went along with slipping into the robe, the forgiveness Daniel felt when he knelt before his tent.

Jack ran his hand over fabric and skin, sturdy poles that went deep into the shifting sands. Inside the ground was covered with layered skins, the top layer covered with a soft fabric. There was a bed that Daniel refused to look at and a small collection of clothing.

"We shall have a feast tonight," Kasuf said, his hand firm on Daniel's shoulder. Jack turned to look at them, father and son, and saw love. "I will send Skaara to fetch you when the time is right."

Daniel's hand covered Kasuf's, squeezing, his knees and sandals still pressing into the sand. "Thank you, good father."

Jack took off his boots and socks, carefully folded them up and put them aside. Daniel continued to kneel, looking at the tent in a way that reminded Jack of late nights and heavy hands.

"Come inside," Jack said with an outstretched hand.

Daniel rose, met Jack's eyes and took his hand. Jack folded long fingers over warm skin, feeling the familiar answering grasp of Daniel's fingers. Together they walked into what had once been Daniel's marriage tent.

  


Julie had called him once, late at night, when he had still been married to Sarah. Charlie was three, he had yet to be sent to Iraq, and there was still a metal cross on his neck. Julie had cried, her voice breaking as she spoke across hundreds of miles in a whisper.

"Dad's dying. Come home."

Jack shook despite himself, hugging his knees to his chest as he thought about going home, thought about watching the man he hated so much die. His hand slid to the cross around his neck, twisting it into the skin painfully. Julie let out another choked sob and Jack made his decision.

"Let him die."

Jack slowly hung up the phone, his heart pounding in his ears. He slipped out of the bed and walked away, Sarah sitting up and watching but not following. The basement was always the coldest part of the house and he found a small corner, kneeling before the plaster, his hands clasped together tightly.

Jack leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the wall, the ridges and whorls of the poor plaster cutting into his skin. Prayers spilled from his lips like bits of string, gathering dust and lying at his feet.

Five hundred miles away, a Bible was closed and an old man died.

  


The tent smelled like yak and sweat, too hot and crowded for either of them to get any sleep. Daniel's fingers traced paths along Jack's skin, writing words in languages Jack would never know, words that meant nothing to him and quite possibly nothing to Daniel.

Daniel's fingers always stuttered over the scar on his throat, the perfect cross he carried with him despite being a professed atheist. Daniel, a devout believer in dead worlds, asked nothing and received no answers in return. Together they buried Jack's past under layers of touches and sins.

Jack raised a hand to card through Daniel's hair, the greasy strands passing through his fingers like the finest silk. Daniel smelled of sweat and musk and somewhere deep underneath anything else, the foul stench of death that none of them had been able to wash off. Jack could smell it on himself and knew he would until the day he himself died.

Daniel's hand stopped and curled over Jack's hip, a fist against the pale skin there. Jack stopped as well, turning his head to look at Daniel in the dim light of a torch.

"She would fold her hands over mine. They were rough, but gentle. I trusted her hands."

Jack uncurled Daniel's fingers and laced them with his own. There were no sounds except their mingled breathing and the wind blowing sand against the sides of the tent, only broken by a hoarse whisper from Jack.

"The troubles of my heart have multiplied; free me from my anguish. Guard my life and rescue me; let me not be put to shame, for I take refuge in you."*

Daniel's fingers went back to the scar and rested there, light as butterfly wings and as heavy as a Bible at the same time. Jack turned his head and stared at the pallet where Daniel and Sha're had once made love, the sins of his own past, present and future pressing against Daniel's fingertips.

  


Jack lived in shit, his own and the shit of the other men in the prison with him. All of his being was permeated with the scent of feces and urine and death. His mind had so far stood up against the Iraqi soldiers' attempts at torturing him to give up information. His body may break down, but his mind was trained by the army and his father.

Always quiet, always diffident, eyes closed, head up, knees on the ground. Speak, boy, or else I'll take the switch to you. Start with the first and keep going. All 150 psalms or you'll never sleep tonight. Feel the word, boy. Feel the word.

Jack tilted his head up as brown fingers curled around the small silver cross dangling from his neck. Dog tags long gone, it was the only item he had that might help to identify his body someday.

"Where is your Jesus now?"

Jeering, laughing men holding guns and electronics were crowded into what could only be termed the torture room. Jack looked at them through fatigue-weary eyes and shrugged. Some faceless soldier smacked him in the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

"Answer him!"

Jack began to chuckle, a painful, rasping sound that caused him more pain than enjoyment. He didn't stop though, his shoulders shaking as the men grew quiet, restless with his defiant laughter.

The cross was yanked from his neck and thrown across the room. Jack stopped laughing and concentrated on the crooked, yellowed teeth of the soldier inches from his face.

"Your Jesus will not save you now."

"No," Jack croaked. "He never does."

*Psalm 25 verse 17,20


End file.
